A DARK MONTH.
335
The roses of love,
More sweet
Than blossoms that rain from above
Round our feet,
When under high bowers
We pass,
Where the west wind freckles with flowers
All the grass.
But a child's thoughts bear
More bright
Sweet visions by day, and more fair
Dreams by night,
Than summer's whole treasure
Can be:
What am I that his thought should take pleasure,
Then, in me?
I am only my love's
True lover,
With a nestful of songs, like doves
Under cover,
That I bring in my cap
Fresh caught,
To be laid on my small king's lap—
Worth just nought
